


Nearly Romeo and Juliet

by bisexual_dumbass



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: AU- Ligur Lives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Arguing, Ch. 4 update tags:, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Dealing With Trauma, Established Relationship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Oh also, Panic Attacks, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Work In Progress, but i promise you it's relevant, difficult conversations, everything tagged will be addressed eventually, i always go back and change the tags so much, i have been writing the shit out of this fic, i haven't done angst in a while so i guess this is it coming out all at once, not using the official tag for that because he isn't in this, so... this ended up getting pretty heavy, sorry - Freeform, this is unbelievable I can’t believe I did this to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-12 14:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21477685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexual_dumbass/pseuds/bisexual_dumbass
Summary: Is this what he wants? He wants Crowley cave in his own chest and hand over his shipwrecked heart? Torn apart and riddled with shrapnel, stinging at the salt from the sea? He’s going to drown here, and his face won’t show a second of it. This isn’t a pond anymore, and he’s not going to take Aziraphale with him. The frothing waters and salted spray are hidden firmly behind his icy set jaw and steely pupils.Crowley told Aziraphale a lie, so he comes clean. But telling the truth is a bit like pulling loose threads— sometimes the whole thing unravels.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley hesitates by the door to Aziraphale’s study. It’s only closed about halfway, so he pushes it open a little farther and leans in.

“Hey, um…” Crowley already has to pause and gain control of the shakiness in his voice, but he thinks he does an okay job of covering it up by clearing his throat. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dearest?” He doesn’t lift his attention from the thick book on his desk. 

“Can I… I was wondering… do you… uh…” Off to a great start— a wordsmith, he is. Aziraphale looks up from his book with a flicker of concern, and— oh, fuck it. He can’t do this. “Actually, it’s… it’s not important. Never mind.”

Aziraphale flits his eyes over him, and he feels about ready to jump out of his skin— looks it too.

“Are you sure?” he asks doubtfully.

“Mhm.” He nods. “Yeah. Yes. Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s quite alright.” Aziraphale hesitates a moment, still trying to get a read on whatever energy this is. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Crowley bumps his shoulder on the door frame on his way out. _ “Ow. _ Yes.” 

“Alright.” Aziraphale gives him a small smile. 

Crowley smiles briefly and shuts the door. He moves quickly. 

_ Shit shit shit shit shit. _

“Love you!” Aziraphale’s muffled voice calls after him.

Crowley makes a nervous sound that he hopes the walls are courteous enough to hide, and he steadies his breath. 

“Love you too!” he shouts after a pause which is barely too long to be natural. "I left a hat at Nath’s! Won’t be long!" 

* * *

“Hat?” Aziraphale says quietly to himself. He can’t recall the last time he saw Crowley wearing a hat. 

He marks his page and closes his book while still staring at the door. He’s clearly got something on his mind— he’s been doing this for a long while now. Maybe a month. Crowley is a rather nervous person, but he’s fairly certain it’s getting worse. He gets skittish seemingly at random, insisting that he’s fine. He’s tried to ask him about it before, but it usually doesn’t go anywhere. 

Crowley has a habit of that— he’s terrible at it, but he’s always had a tendency to pretend everything is fine when it very much is not. It can make him great in a crisis— Heaven knows, they’ve been in _ many _ crises— but it hurts him more than it helps. Aziraphale has been waiting for Crowley to approach him, but he has a feeling this’ll go on forever if he doesn’t ask him what’s been on his mind. 

He’s been spending a lot of time with Anathema. That’s good, at least— he hopes he’s been able to confide in her the things he can’t in him. She’s a good woman. 

Aziraphale rhythmically taps his fingers against his desk as he considers how to go about this. He smooths the cover of his book contemplatively. They’ll talk when he gets back. 

* * *

Crowley sits stiffly on the couch, cheeks still rosy from the cold. The only light in the room is a dim yellow lamp— damn sun sets so early in the winter. He takes a sip of the drink he poured himself. Well, what he could get into the glass, that is. A third of the bottle ended up on the counter— he could barely hold the blasted thing. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls. He doesn’t hear him, hardly acknowledges when he enters the living room. “Oh, there you are. Couldn’t you hear me?” 

“Mm-mm.” He shakes his head absentmindedly. He still doesn’t look at him. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but he finally thinks ‘fuck it.’ “I need to talk to you.” 

Aziraphale sits on the reclining chair across from the couch. “That’s… actually why I was looking for you.” 

“Mm.” Crowley nods, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

“Well then…” Aziraphale isn’t sure how to go about this— he certainly hadn’t expected Crowley to initiate this. “Are you ready?” 

He nods, eyes still distant. Aziraphale sits on the reclining chair near the couch, a little uneasy with Crowley’s aloofness. Crowley reaches to the coffee table to set down his glass, which he has a white-knuckle grip on, and nearly spills it. The trembling in his hand does nothing to ease Aziraphale’s wide-eyed concern. 

“I don’t want you to worry.” 

Aziraphale’s heart has already begun to race. It’s a bit late for that. “But?” 

“I—” Crowley tries to speak, but his chest tightens— he guesses his body is starting to reject his fuck-it attitude. He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek and stares intently at the floor in front of him for a beat. He supposes his next bit is indirect enough that his body will allow him to say it. 

“Ligur…” 

“Oh, darling. You had…” — Crowley starts to shake his head— “no… choice,” he trails off. 

Crowley stops shaking his head. “He isn’t dead.” 

“Why…” Aziraphale almost asks why that’s relevant until he remembers the nature of his supposed death, and his demeanor changes in an instant. 

He stands. “Do you mean—?” He worries that if he finishes the question he’ll will it into reality. It might explain his behavior, but he _ wouldn’t. _

Crowley chews his lip. He nods almost imperceptibly. 

Aziraphale laughs a panicked sound and paces a few times. He prays to whoever that there’s a reasonable explanation, but the dread in the pit of his stomach tells him there isn’t one. 

“Where is it?” 

“Cellar. The shelf you can’t reach,” he says flatly, worried that if he emotes too much he’ll lose control of it. 

Aziraphale is stunned into silence. He can’t think of any reason Crowley would lie to him about it— put extremely lightly, the holy water is a touchy subject. It weighed on him for decades— he thought this was over. To discover it’s been a danger this whole time— for _ months _ now— all of that fear comes flooding back tenfold. 

“What were you _ thinking?” _

Crowley cringes at the hurt in his voice. “I thought you’d be angry—” 

“No, no, no, I am not angry— I’m–I’m—” The longer he thinks about it, the more panicked he becomes. “I’m _ horrified! _ You know how I feel about the water!” 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

Aziraphale is confounded by his seeming indifference to the situation. “What were you planning on doing with it? What reason could you have _ possibly _ had?” 

Crowley keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. He genuinely doesn’t know how to tell him. He didn’t think he’d ever get this far. 

“What if something had happened to you? How would I have even known? What if I tried to find you and you just weren't there!” 

Aziraphale begins to pace, too distracted to notice that Crowley clenches his jaw at those questions. 

“Do you have any idea how that would have felt?” Aziraphale stops pacing. “Crowley, please look at me.” He doesn’t, but Aziraphale continues in a soft, pleading way. “Crowley… can you imagine—” 

Crowley stands, gesturing harshly, and shouts, “I don’t have to _ imagine _ it! I know exactly how it fucking feels!” 

Aziraphale’s expression goes slack. Crowley puts his stoic face back on, and he starts to storm out of the room. 

Aziraphale follows him down the hall. “Crowley, wait. Please—” The front door slams shut. 

He stands in the hallway feeling helpless as the Bentley’s headlights shine through the murky glass on the door. The engine roars as Crowley drives away, and Aziraphale is left in darkness. 

He slowly walks back to the living room and sits on the couch, dazed. How could he have been so insensitive? He rests his head in his hands and scolds himself. He poked at the one thing Crowley absolutely refuses to talk about— no, he did worse than just poke at it. 

Crowley has opened up about everything— _ every _hell he’s had to deal with, literal and figurative— but not once has he been willing to talk about the fire. 

He takes the glass of scotch Crowley left on the table, drinks all of it at once, and sets it back down. He puts his face back into his hands. Nothing makes a fool of him more than his own fear. 

But why? _ Why? _ How could he _ possibly _justify hiding this from him? 

He holds the bridge of his nose and huffs. It doesn’t matter— he’s getting rid of it for good. At the very least, he was honest with him. 

He walks calmly to the cellar door and takes a deep breath before beginning to descend. If Crowley truly had a good reason for wanting holy water in this house, (though he absolutely _ cannot _ fathom one), then he can always get more. 

He reaches the base of the stairs and crosses the room to the bloody shelf he can’t reach— he flicks his wrist to the side and everything on it slides off. A case of light bulbs and an extra set of champagne flutes shatter on the floor— irrelevant. What matters is the shoe box that falls with a thud at his feet— he flips it open, and sure enough that same thermos is inside, wrapped in layers and layers of cloth. He holds it in his hands for a moment. This damned thing has caused nothing but pain; he should never have given it to him in the first place. 

He turns and throws it across the room. It disappears before it hits the wall— it could be in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, for all he cares. The only place he had in mind was _ away._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some info you’re probably going to need for this chapter— sound doesn’t travel in a vacuum. Also, miracles are hard to perform accurately if you’re not in the right state of mind.

Aziraphale throws open yet another cupboard— still nothing. He can’t find the candle he just bought anywhere. He shuts the cabinet door a little harder than necessary and checks his watch for the thousandth time— Crowley’s been gone 45 minutes, and it’s excruciating. Maybe if he finds this damn candle he’ll calm down— another empty cabinet. 

He slams it shut. He can’t do this— he has to. 

He finally breaks down and picks up the wall phone again, but this time he punches a different number. It goes straight to voicemail. 

“Hello. You’ve reached Anathema Device. I’m not available at the moment.” 

He sighs as the rest of the prerecorded message plays out— at least it gives him a moment to calm down. 

The phone beeps. 

“Hello, Anathema. It’s Aziraphale. I know Crowley’s been spending a lot of time with you… I, um… don’t know how to go about this. Surely you know he’s been struggling? I was wondering if—” his throat catches, and he spends the rest of his message trying to keep back tears. “Is he there? Or do you know where he is? I can’t get through to his phone— I don’t need to talk to him, I just… I just need to know that he’s safe. So, um… please be sure to call back.” 

He hangs up the phone and stands frozen. He can’t think of how to fix this, especially not without Crowley here. He finally moves to one of the stools by the kitchen counter, feeling helpless. 

He called him twice, but both went straight to voicemail, so he gave up. Crowley must have turned his phone off, which means he’s definitely not open to talking. There’s no point in trying to push it. 

He thinks back to all the times he deflected any attempt he made to talk about the fire. He’s been _ insisting _ that he brushed it off. He thought he was dead, but he wasn’t, so everything is fine— yes, it was scary, but there’s nothing to talk about. 

Aziraphale knew it couldn’t be true, and sadly, tonight proves him right. No matter how many walls he knocks down, there are always more— always taller and sturdier than the ones before. He can’t imagine how many other things Crowley is hiding— how many things he’s in denial of. 

He isn’t given much time to let his worries continue to spiral, because the phone rings. He doesn’t waste a second dashing over. 

“Anathema?” 

“Hi.” 

He skips the pleasantries. “Is he with you?” 

“No…” She pauses— that part of his message confused her as well. “Aziraphale, I’ve… I’ve been in the States for a couple of weeks.” 

It takes Aziraphale a moment to process that information. “A couple _ weeks?” _

“Yeah. I take it he didn’t tell you I was going out of town.” 

“I don’t… I don’t understand. He’s been going to see you so often— but he’s not— you’re not—” He stops when he fully realizes the situation. If Crowley hasn’t been going to see her, then what has he been doing? 

Anathema gives him a second to digest that before giving him even more to chew on. “I missed your call because I was on the phone with him.” 

“Is he safe?” There is no space between the end of her statement and the beginning of his question. 

“Yes,” she says with a fair amount of confidence. “He’s fine— well, ‘fine’ is relative, but he’s not in immediate danger.” 

Aziraphale takes his first easy breath in almost an hour. “Do you know where he is?” 

“No, I think he was in his car when he called… He hasn’t talked to you at all, has he.” It’s phrased like a question, but she says it like a statement. 

“He tried tonight, but I…” He sighs. “I lost my temper, and he left. I feel awful— nothing scares me more than the holy water.” 

Her heart drops. Crowley has never mentioned that. 

“Okay.” She rubs her eyes with her free hand. She sighs— she was a little on the fence about doing this, but she can’t keep quiet after learning he kept that from her. “He hasn’t been taking my advice. If he’s not going to talk to you, then I will. I need you to make sure you’re calm, and then I’ll explain everything I know the best I can.” 

He takes a deep breath. “Alright. Calmed.” 

“Okay.” She starts off slowly. “I haven’t seen him in a while, but we’ve been talking a lot. Mostly texting, but sometimes he calls when it’s really bad. The f—” 

“When _ what’s _ bad? I’m already lost.” 

_ “Calm,” _ she scolds. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Please continue.” 

“The first time he called me, it was the middle of the night a while back. I could barely understand what he was saying. Even after he calmed down, I could hardly get him to tell me what was going on, so we started texting— that seems to be easier for him. He told me he had a nightmare and snuck out so you wouldn’t worry.” She thinks that’s an appropriate block of information for him to handle. 

He sighs. “Well that explains why he hasn’t been sleeping.” 

“Yeah, probably,” she confirms. “By the time he was outside, he was already having a panic attack. He didn’t know that’s what it was then, but that’s what it was.” 

“I… I don’t know what that is either.” 

“Uh… I just told Anthony to look it up because this is a… surprisingly difficult thing to explain to non-humans, which is something I never thought I’d have to do. But to put it as simply as possible, humans have a panic mode for when we’re in danger— it’s a good thing that’s supposed to happen, but if it happens when you _ aren’t _ in danger, then it’s a panic attack. It’s a bit more complex than that, though, and it’s very distressing— _ especially _ if you don’t know what’s happening.” 

Aziraphale rubs his forehead. “I still don’t understand— we’re not _ human.” _

“I don’t think your _ very _human bodies give a damn. What he described? That’s a panic attack.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to process everything. He’s glad he knows all of this, but he thought that knowing more would be comforting. So far, he only has more questions and more worry. 

Anathema gives him a moment to think before she continues. “I told him I wouldn’t talk to you about this, but then I listened to your message, and… I couldn’t let this go on any longer than it already has. He needs help that I can’t give him.” 

They sit in silence for a moment— it isn’t tense or awkward, but it’s not quite comfortable either. It’s a silence of shared worry. Aziraphale is too nervous to break it, but Anathema isn’t. 

“You know… He’ll probably be there soon. Before we got off the phone, he told me he needed a few minutes to finish coming down, and then he’d go back home.” 

He exhales with relief. “Thank… thank you.” He’d almost said ‘thank Heaven,’ but that’s not who he should thank. “Thank you for telling me. And thank you for being there for him. I can’t imagine what he would’ve done without you.” 

“Of _ course.” _ Anathema is a little surprised, but then again, from everything she’s heard, it doesn’t sound like they have much experience with people who genuinely care about their well-being. 

“Hey, before you go…” 

Aziraphale waits for her to continue, but she hesitates for a while. “Yes?”

“Please… be patient? He’s terrified.” 

Aziraphale laughs sadly. “My dear… I waited six thousand years to be with him, and I would do it again in a heartbeat. I’ve nothing but patience for him.” 

She smiles sadly— it’s a bittersweet sentiment. These two have lived the romance of… well, she’d almost thought ‘of a lifetime,’ but they’ve lived at least sixty of those, and they haven’t been without six thousand years worth of bad times along with the good. 

“Goodbye, Anathema. I promise I’ll be in touch soon.” 

“Goodbye. And good luck.” 

Aziraphale gently touches the wall and hangs up the phone. He presses his forehead to the plaster and puts a hand to his mouth as his eyes begin to water. He isn’t sure things could get much worse, until the silence in their home isn’t peaceful— it’s deafening. 

The air is pulled from his lungs, which startles him. Overall, it isn’t a problem, but it’s still very uncomfortable. 

He turns around, perplexed— the clock on the wall has stopped ticking, but the second hand is still moving. He snaps his fingers a few times— no sound. Which means he’s either spontaneously gone deaf, or someone is trying to be quiet and didn’t think the miracle all the way through. 

He snaps his fingers one more time, and the solitary click confirms the latter. 

There’s a loud crash of shattering glass a room away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, being in a vacuum unprotected is **_WAY_** worse than I thought. What the _fuck._ Shit’s _awful._ God damn. Don’t look that up if you’re squeamish. Any of the weird, horrible stuff that should happen that I didn’t include will be attributed to whatever magic their bodies have to protect them. Fucking _yikes._  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of you who have already read the first parts, I took the ending of ch.2 and put it at the beginning here because otherwise the flow felt weird. So if it feels familiar, that's why. This is the part with the panic attack, stay safe yall.

Crowley turns off his headlights and pulls up to the house as slowly as he can. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this— he just wants to slip inside and lie in his bed. Aziraphale almost never sleeps anyway— he’ll have at least a little while before his presence is noticed. They can talk tomorrow. 

He expends a small miracle to keep the car door silent, and another on the front door— or so he thought. He wobbles a bit on the way in, suddenly a bit weak in the knees. 

“Whoa,” he mumbles— or tries to, at least. He stumbles the short distance to the living room on his way to the stairs, but he feels a bit dizzy— bigger miracles will do that. He reaches for the first thing he can get his hand on, which is a floor lamp— unfortunate for all parties involved. It tips over, and he loses his footing, but he doesn’t fall. The lamp is not so lucky. The glass fixture at the top of it connects with the windowsill nearby and shatters loudly. It shoots off a few tiny yellow sparks, and he’s moving before he has time to think— he kicks the lamp away from the curtains and drops to his knees to yank the cord out of the wall. 

He gasps and covers his mouth with both hands. It takes him a full two seconds to process what could have just happened, but his nervous system wastes no time. He starts to hyperventilate, but at the same time he doesn’t seem to be getting any air into his lungs. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, and then Aziraphale calls his name. 

_Aziraphale. _

He tries to use the coffee table to stand, but he doesn’t seem to be able to, and slides the rest of the way down to the floor. 

He’s trapped.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale quickly enters the living room and finds him lying on his back. “Crowley!” He dashes over— he has his knees bent up and the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” Crowley pants. 

Aziraphale, frantic, finally notices the lamp and kneels down. “What happened? Did you fall?” 

He shakes his head. 

Aziraphale scans over him, cluelessly panicked. “What do I do?” He tries to rest a hand on his convulsing chest, but the moment he makes contact, Crowley jolts violently. 

“Don’t—! Don’t— Don’t—” he gasps. 

Aziraphale flinches away. “Crowley—” his voice breaks. “I don’t know how to help you!” 

No one’s ever been around to touch him during one of these, and he’s quickly discovered it’s the last thing he wants. He grimaces as though it hurts to speak. 

“It’ll go away—” he takes a few short breaths— “Eventually.” 

Aziraphale extends his hand and stops himself a few times before giving up. He has to trust him and wait— there’s nothing else he can do. He lies down as close as he can without touching him, hoping that his mere presence will do something, anything. They stare up at the ceiling together, both of their minds going a mile a minute in entirely different ways. Crowley’s ragged breath is the only sound in the room, and Aziraphale presses his hand to his mouth. He looks to him— there are tears streaming down his temples and into his hair, and he wants nothing more than to wipe them away. He feels utterly helpless as he looks back to the ceiling— he is so tired of feeling helpless. 

Thank whoever, it’s a short one. It lasts a little over seven minutes, to be precise— but through Crowley’s perception of it, it could have been an hour, and through Aziraphale’s, an eternity. 

Crowley’s breathing finally begins to steady, and he flexes his hands as the feeling starts to come back to them. He slides his hand a very short distance and stops when his fingers brush against Aziraphale’s thumb to let him know it’s over. Aziraphale intertwines their fingers, and Crowley wishes it didn’t feel so good. They both stay still for another short while until Aziraphale is no longer afraid to speak. 

“Are you alright?” 

Crowley hesitates for a long time, still trying to finish catching his breath. 

“No.” 

Aziraphale takes a second to process his response. He knows he isn’t fine— he hadn’t expected him to admit it. 

“Was that… was that a panic attack?” He says it like a question, but there’s a matter-of-factness to it. 

Crowley closes his eyes— Anathema. There’s no point in trying to lie. Well… even if there was, he doesn’t think he would. 

“Yes.” 

Aziraphale is afraid of the answer, but he asks anyway. “How many times?” 

“I… I don’t know.” 

“Crowley, please. Please tell me the truth.” 

“I, uh…” Crowley breathes something that could be either a dry sob or a pained laugh. “I lost count.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t know how to respond to that. “Oh,” he says softly. He takes his eyes off the ceiling to look over at him. Crowley senses it, but he can’t look at him right now. 

“How do I help you?” 

Crowley closes his eyes again. This is exactly what he didn’t want to happen. “Just need a minute. Used to it.” 

Aziraphale tries to scold, but it comes out as a plea. “Crowley.” 

He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. “… water.” 

Aziraphale starts to sit up. “Then let’s get you some water. Can you walk to the kitchen?” 

He still can’t feel his legs from the calves down. “Mm. Prob’ly not.”

“Then let’s just get you on the couch for now— can you do that?” 

He considers it. “I think so.” 

Aziraphale stands, but Crowley stays on the ground. “Do you need help?” 

He shakes his head. “I need a sec.” 

Aziraphale gives him a worried smile, which is almost all parts worried and no smile. “I’ll be back in a moment— don’t you dare go anywhere.” 

Crowley lays on the floor, feeling a bit like a puddle, and takes a long, deep breath. It feels so good to be able to do that again, but of course it doesn’t last long. His chest spasms with an aftershock wave of panic as he realizes what this means: he can’t hide anymore. 

Everything was perfect before this started happening. He’s been doing everything he could to get back to that— the blissful freedom to do and be all they’ve ever wanted. They had it for a few months, and then he woke up to that nightmare like a brick in the face, and suddenly everything was not fine. The world was ending again, and he was choking on soot that wasn’t in the air— the air that he doesn’t even need to breathe. He wanted anything but to share that slice of Hell with Aziraphale. 

There wasn’t a single ripple in the pond. He took that brick to the face and every one that followed to keep them from disturbing the finally, finally calmed water— haven’t they been through _ enough? _ But now there’s no boat left to keep from rocking, and Aziraphale is going to drown with him. 

Crowley hears the whistling of a tea kettle from across the house, and he does his best to swallow the lump in his throat. He’s fighting so hard not to admit to himself that having Aziraphale here tonight is helping, because that means he’s going to keep trying to help. All he wants to do is hide this ugly thing again. Tears begin to prick his eyes, because that’s just it— he has hidden for nearly his entire existence, concealed every part of himself everyone deemed ugly or inconvenient, but Aziraphale hasn’t done that. He has never done that.

And that's what scares him the most. He knows he doesn’t have to hide— he _ wants _ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to get a little poetic with the prose at the end, I'm a poet by heart. I hope it came across well :) also, i've been in a crazy adhd hyperfixation writing frenzy, so everything is getting updated super chaotically you have my sincerest apologies.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some important tags, so you might wanna give those last few a read if you haven’t already. This chapter is long and Big Ouch, apologies in advance. The footnotes might distract from the flow, so it’d probably be best to just read this through and those afterwards.  
Song I had on repeat while writing because I wanted to suffer: ["Save Yourself"](https://open.spotify.com/track/2AwPXDmMeUJGt2Ro5Ea10G) by KALEO  
  
(Had a little issue with the footnotes, but hopefully they're working now. HTML is HARD TO WORK WITH.)

In the kitchen, Aziraphale fills a kettle with hot water. He rests it on a burner and paces slowly around the kitchen. He knows this will take a few minutes, but he’s sure Crowley will appreciate the time. He is used to handling this alone, as painful as that is to accept. He can feel Crowley in the other room; if he leaves he’ll know. If he’s being honest, he needs a few minutes alone as well. 

He feels so stupid. So neglectful. Crowley has been leaving to visit Anathema once or twice a week for some time— he hasn’t a clue what he could possibly have been doing. Drinking? Stirring up trouble he knows is dangerous? He has a history of that, self-sabotage as a form of punishing himself. 

He knew something was wrong, but he had no idea the severity. He should have _ known _ better! 

Punctuating his regrets is the screaming whistle of the kettle. It takes another few minutes to let it steep, and to prepare it with too much milk and sugar. 

He carries the mug and a glass of water back to the living room. 

Crowley is leaned against the arm of the couch, curled in on himself and fast asleep. Even now, his face is traced with worry lines. 

He rests the glass of water on the coffee table next to the empty scotch glass— was that really tonight? —and sits gently on the cushion next to him. He can’t remember the last time Crowley slept. 

He takes a sip of the tea and cringes at the sweetness, the way Crowley likes it— it barely qualifies as tea anymore. He used to drink it plain and black for the longest time. Like he was afraid of having a soft spot. The man wouldn’t even put sugar in his tea. Of course he wouldn’t want to show him this. 

But at least he showed someone. And at least it isn’t the middle of the night where she is. 

He brushes a lock of hair out of Crowley’s face, and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. 

“Sleep well, my love.” 

* * *

Crowley wakes up; it’s the disorienting sort of waking up where it feels like no time has passed, and he’s not sure whether he’s awake or where he is. The room is unnaturally bright with the sunlight bouncing harshly off of the snow outside, and his vision is hazy, unprepared for the light. It doesn’t help him feel any less in a trance. 

But he slept. 

And he was fine. 

It’s pleasantly surprising until he remembers the details of last night and notices the sour taste in his mouth. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table, and a sheet of paper and a fountain pen next to it, a note scribbled out in Aziraphale’s flawless penmanship. 

_ Good morning, love. I hope you slept well. I didn’t have the heart to wake you, so I let you be. I stayed nearby most of the night, just to make sure you didn’t stir too much. I hope that’s alright. Oh, and I learned that this is easier for you— to talk through messages, that is. I left you some water, and you can write back when you’re ready. I’m most likely in my study. Take your time, dearest. _

Crowley sets down the paper and sprawls back onto the couch. 

Fuck. They’re doing this. He’s doing this. It’s happening. The worst case scenario is happening. 

He scratches a message onto the page and sends it to Aziraphale’s desk. 

**I don’t know what she told you so just start asking questions**

A few moments later, the page reappears. 

_ We don’t have to talk now, if you’d rather not. Take a moment to breathe, darling. _

**Just start asking**

Crowley rips off the bandaid, but Aziraphale must be the one who winces at the sting. He doesn’t deserve this sharpness, not in the least, but Crowley doesn’t know how to put his teeth and spines away once his hackles are up. His fingers are shards of glass. 

Aziraphale takes too long to write back— probably bandaging the finger he pricked before sticking his hand back into the thorn bush. 

_ What happened to the lamp? _

Thank whoever— an easy one. 

**Tripped. Pushed it over. Almost set the curtains on fire**

_ Ah. Is that why last night happened? _

**Yes **

_ And is this why I keep losing candles? _

Crowley sighs. It was only a matter of time before Aziraphale caught onto that. 

**Yes **

There is a pause. 

_ Anathema is out of town. _

He puts down the paper— he doesn’t want to finish reading the message. 

Fuck. _ Fuck. _ This is not an easy one. 

_ Where have you been spending so much time? _

Crowley leans back and rests his head against the couch. This is one he knew Aziraphale would inevitably discover, and he deliberately never dwelt on it because he _ knew. _ He knew he’d get caught. 

**Mostly driving. There’s some abandoned property not too far from here. Park and just sit there**

He pauses. It’s a good place for him to lose control. He doesn’t have to worry about shooting quills at anyone. That’s a myth about porcupines, but he’s shit at metaphors, and it gets the point across— he’s dangerous. 

**I used to visit her. Now we just talk. I’d go see her. Justified it that way. The lying about it**

For far too long there is no response. The space on the coffee table is painfully vacant without the page there. When it reappears, the words are blotchy, like Aziraphale hesitated and the ink began to pool. 

_ I could have helped yo_**_u_**_; I could have done somethin_**_g_**_— anything_**_._ ** _ Why_**_?_ ** _ Why didn’t you tell me? _

A thousand reasons cross Crowley’s mind as he tries to respond. _I didn’t want you to worry. I was waiting for it to blow over. I could have gotten over it on my own._ _I didn’t want to drag you through this with me— _his cross to bear, and other ridiculous religious imagery. 

But most importantly—_ I didn’t want to hurt you. _ That isn’t what he says, though, not even on paper. As simple as it sounds in his head, things never come out so easily. 

**The water**

This response is quick. 

_ I don’t care about the water. I got rid of it. _

Crowley swears his heart stops. 

**You got rid of it?**

_ Of course. I can’t fathom your reasoning, but I assure you I am not angry. I overreacted, and for that I am sorry. _

Crowley closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. For a moment, all he focuses on is breathing. He can barely scrawl out his two word message, his hand is trembling so much. 

**Thank you**

_ I don’t understand. You didn’t want it? _

**I tried to tell you last night**

_ Tell me what? _

**I couldn’t think about it anymore I was going to drive myself mad I’m so sorry angel**

_ Crowley. _

He can hear the way he would say it, with the deep crease between his brows and the hurt— the _ pleading— _ in his voice. 

_ Crowley. _

He would have gone on hiding this forever if he had to. If he could have. If he hadn’t told him about the water. If he’d been able to just stop _ thinking _about it— the heartbeat beneath the floorboards slowly yet gradually driving him to insanity.1 If he had to think about it sitting down there another minute, he really would have gone mad, but to acknowledge it out loud was too much, too, and he didn’t realize it was too much until it was too late. He lost his temper and practically ran away. 

He chuckles— it was almost Shakespearean melodrama. He really is losing it if he can laugh at a time like this. 

He doesn’t even know why he kept it— he was absolutely not planning on using it. He knew it was a bad idea from the beginning, and that frightens him more than he cares to admit. That he could do something like this and have no clue why. Maybe that’s why he finally broke and ruined everything last night. It was too much to finally admit to himself the tragedy they’d almost played into, and he knows God watched the whole thing on the edge of Her seat because She gets off on irony. 

He’s never been one for finding poetic parallels, or writing poetry at all, for that matter. He’s _ shit _ at metaphors, and his analogies aren’t any better, but he can never say anything directly— never has been able to— so he tries. 

Cowardly, he is, like that. 

**Romeo and Juliet**

Aziraphale doesn’t respond. 

Maybe he doesn’t understand what he’s implying. 

Or worse— he does. 

He’s at a loss for words, with that scandalized look he’s seen so often. The horror. How dare he ever consider doing something so stupid? How _ dare _ he? Rip his heart out with your smashed bottle hands, why don’t you? 

There are ten seconds of ear-ringing silence until Aziraphale is marching into the room with an expression Crowley can’t read, and he’s buried between him and the couch. He barely hugs him back with his broken glass body, a jumble of paper cuts and splinters barely held together by haphazard stitches. 

“My love, my _ love,” _ he breathes onto his neck, and Crowley barely feels it. 

He isn’t processing any sensory input, lagging behind a few seconds. All he can focus on is not cutting him. His wiry, garrote arms will slice straight through him if he isn’t careful. 

He feels so soft and warm and safe. Vulnerable. Aziraphale pulls away ever so slightly, and Crowley wishes he hadn’t let him; what sort of predatory thing is inside him to wish that? 

“I had no idea.” As though the first time hadn’t already ripped out enough sutures, he says it again. “I had no idea how much you were suffering.” 

Is this what he wants? He wants Crowley cave in his own chest and hand over his shipwrecked heart? Torn apart and riddled with shrapnel, stinging at the salt from the sea? He’s going to drown here, and his face won’t show a _ second _of it. This isn’t a pond anymore, and he’s not going to take Aziraphale with him. The frothing waters and salted spray are hidden firmly behind his icy set jaw and steely pupils. 

Aziraphale kneels to better look at him with that damned crease between his brows and his entirely too earnest eyes. 

Crowley wants to scream _ don’t touch me, _ but he doesn’t want that. He wants Aziraphale to hold him because he’s selfish. 

Aziraphale cautiously touches his cheek. Crowley twitches away, and the look on his face shoots another arrow through his chest. 

“I’m sorry, I should have asked.” He starts to lean away, and without thinking, Crowley sinks his talons into the sides of his shirt. He stops moving away, and Crowley hates himself for it. 

Aziraphale is clearly having a hard time getting a read on whatever this is— Crowley doesn’t know what he’s trying to convey or which parts are hidden anymore. Eventually, Aziraphale hesitates a moment, and then he places the smallest kiss on his forehead. 

The final thread snaps. Crowley’s chest caves in, and he hands over that wrecked heart as the air is punched from his chest. 

“You were _ dead.” _ The ugly saltwater burns holes in his lungs and melts the ice. “I couldn’t feel you—” 

Aziraphale pulls him close, as tightly as he can, and he gasps into his shoulder. “Hush, now, I know. I know.” 

Crowley grabs at fistfuls of shirt with his broken fingers. He lets Aziraphale touch his spiny back and the jagged bones jutting out of him. His garrote arms don’t slice through him, his glass hands don’t cut him, his bloodied heart doesn’t stain his shirt. His arms aren’t soft, they’re strong, and they hold him together as he falls apart. The sutures unstitch themselves, and Aziraphale will keep his limbs together until he can do it himself. 

“I almost— I almost—” A small aftershock sob interrupts him, and Aziraphale gently pets the hair on the back of his head. A breath shakes out of him at that. 

“It’s alright. We’ve all the time in the world. It’s alright.” He kisses his temple. “Everything is alright.” 

Crowley speaks despite the tightness in his throat. “I almost did it to you. The worst thing that’s ever happened to me— it was the end of the fucking world, and that was the worst thing that’s ever happened— and I almost did it to you.” 

“You _ didn’t.” _ Aziraphale doesn’t say it softly. “It doesn’t matter what almost happened, or what could have happened.” He must sense Crowley’s next question. “I know what I said about the water. I had a lot of time to think it over while you were asleep. I was scared, and I panicked. All that matters is what _ did _happen.” 

Aziraphale lets go, and Crowley doesn’t collapse or crumble. His seams are weak, but they’re intact, and he isn’t falling apart. 

“And what _ did _ happen, is you. You were honest. You’re _ alive.” _

Crowley feels naked without his glasses. Aziraphale can see him— he’s looking at these damaged parts of him with no barrier or filter. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Crowley.” He says it softly, but there’s no hurt, no pleading. “Don’t you dare apologize right now.” 

Crowley focuses his attention on Aziraphale’s collar. He can’t look into his eyes anymore. He can’t bear the intensity of it, like staring into the sun, the way he’s looking at him. Aziraphale loves him— _ loves _ him— and it’s too much at times. 

It’s too much for Aziraphale, too. To see Crowley like this is too much. For so long he’s been suffering, aching, writhing in misery so shallowly beneath the surface, and that he hadn’t seen it sooner is too _ much. _

_ Me. The only reason he lives is for me. What if we’d never met? What if I _ had _ died? What if I _ had _ called things off and left for good? Crowley would not be alive. _

“Darling, that you live for me is not flattering— it’s _ heart _breaking.” 

So he’s done it. Aziraphale is heartbroken. 

“Don’t look like that, like you’ve wounded me.” 

Crowley isn’t convinced of anything otherwise. He’s waiting for it— _ I’ll take my heart clean apart if it helps yours beat. If you can’t catch your breath, you can take the oxygen straight out of my own chest_2— and Crowley wants anything, _ anything _ but that. That’s his responsibility, to give up his own spare parts. 

“Crowley, I love you more than anything on this Heaven and Hell-forsaken Earth, and if anything were to happen to you, I don’t know what I would do with myself.” He takes either side of his face into his soft, strong hands, and Crowley’s eyes are not doors, they’re windows. “But I know you would want me to keep living for you. Why should I want anything less for you? To live for _ me, _ that isn’t enough. I cannot be your sole purpose.” 

“I don’t know how else to love you.” 

“You can learn. I want you to learn for me.” 

He lets Aziraphale hold him, lets him sand down his sharpest edges, lets him pull out the biggest shards of glass. 

And he learns. 

He will find it— that purpose— eventually. Not at first. It’ll take a long time for him to learn. At first, he’ll live for Aziraphale— he doesn’t know how else to be— but there’s nothing wrong with leaning on a crutch when your legs are broken. He’ll live for Aziraphale until he can live for himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. “The Tell-Tale Heart” is a short story written by Edgar Allan Poe. The protagonist murders a man and hides his body beneath the floorboards. During his descent into madness, he believes he can hear the man’s heartbeat pulsing through the floor, which only furthers his insanity, and all the while he is insisting he is perfectly sane. Back
> 
> 2\. This a lyric from a song titled “Two” by the band Sleeping at Last, off the album Enneagram. An Enneagram is a personality test, and someone with Enneagram Type Two is “well-meaning and driven to be close to others, but can slip into doing things for others in order to be needed. They typically have problems with possessiveness and with acknowledging their own needs.” It’s a song about selflessly supporting and healing a lover, and it’s a lovely sentiment to be so altruistic, but when it becomes self-destructive, it’s no longer a sustainable way of loving someone. Back  
  
Author's note: I recently came across some writing that was unbelievably inspiring, and it helped me find something I think I was missing before. Been working on honing my voice, which is so, SO hard to find. Also, I usually associate songs with fics/chapters, but I don’t really share them even though I want to? I’m gonna start doing it for that reason alone. I appreciate every person that reads all the way to the end, thank you so much for the support and kindness ❤️❤️❤️ I do this for me, mostly, but I want to get better at telling these stories for all of you too.


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